Tao Upanishad #26

In existence, the subtler a thing is, the more invisible it is; the grosser it is, the more visible. What appears is shallow; what does not appear is deep. Hence those who set out to see God fall into a fundamental mistake. The very phrase "Ishwar-darshan" is inconsistent. Whatever can be seen will not be God. If it can be seen, by that very fact it ceases to be God.

Whatever the eyes can see is matter. Whatever the hands can touch is matter. Whatever the ears can hear is matter. Whatever the mind can know is matter. In truth, whatever we come to know becomes bounded by limit, size, and form. Beyond all our knowing, what forever remains; what we might wish to touch yet cannot, wish to see yet cannot—and yet we cannot say it is not—that is what is called Paramatman.

There are three points. First: what appears, is. What the senses experience, is. This is the meaning of the evident: what stands before the eyes. We call that truth, reality. Whatever we cannot see, whatever we cannot touch—naturally our mind says: it is not. If it were, we would see, touch, know it! Thus the second category: what is not. That we neither see, nor touch, nor know.

If these were the only two categories of existence, there would be no space for Paramatman, no method for religion, no existence of the soul, no possibility of love—and all prayers would be false. But there is a third category as well. I have named two: one, what we can see, touch, understand—that is. Two, what is not—we can neither see, nor understand, nor touch it. Apart from these two there is a third: what is, yet we cannot touch, cannot understand, cannot grasp—and still we cannot deny it. This third category is God. Lao Tzu calls this third category Tao.

Tao means Dharma; Tao means the law; Tao means the ground of ultimate being, the supreme being, the Ultimate Reality. This third—what Lao Tzu calls Tao—call it God, call it soul, call it truth: the names are given by us; no difference accrues from the name. Buddha called it Nirvana, called it Shunya. Since Buddha called it Shunya, those who did not understand assumed Buddha was saying it is not. Had Buddha wished to say it is not, there was no need even to say Shunya. Buddha said: it is Shunya. He did not deny its being; he gave it the name of emptiness. Because, said Buddha, both aspects are contained in Shunya. Shunya both is and is-not. It is such that it is as if it were not. Its presence is like absence. Even in being, it does not crystallize into a dense manifestation. Its being is not solid. Therefore those who want to seize it in a very solid way remain deprived. And those who wander about hoping somehow to know it the way we know other things—they never come to know it. The very mode of knowing it will have to change.

Let us understand this in some way. I say: there is love in my heart for you. But by cutting open my heart, my love cannot be understood in any way. Whoever sets out to cut open my heart will arrive at the conclusion that I was speaking a lie—because love will not be found anywhere.

Love is not a thing that we can unearth. Love is not a substance that can be caught in a laboratory and examined by instruments. And if a physician examines in every way, if an anatomist explores in every way, many things will fall into his hands of which the lover himself had no idea—bones, marrow, muscles, hands, lungs—everything will come to hand, things the lover never knew were there. When he placed his hand upon his heart and said, "My heart is full of love," the very thing he spoke of—that alone will not come to the anatomist’s hand; much will, of which he had no inkling. And the anatomist will spread it all upon his table. But there will be no love anywhere in it. Surely the anatomist will say: there is nothing like love; this man either spoke a lie or was deluded. Only two possibilities: either he knowingly lied, or unknowingly, because he himself had fallen into illusion.

But there is a curious thing: if we ask the anatomist—even granting that there was no love and there was delusion—then the delusion also never comes within your grasp! If this man was not in love but in delusion, that delusion too is nowhere on your table to be caught! If he was not in delusion but was speaking untruth, then that untruth—the false love he was speaking, the falsity happening within—also does not appear anywhere on your table! In truth, the anatomist ought to say: there was not even a man who was speaking—because the man himself does not come within grasp. And where something does come within grasp, there is no speaker at all. But even the anatomist cannot say that, because he too is speaking.

So we will have to say of love: love exists, but not with the kind of existence things have. It is a different existence—a different dimension of existence! Love is; but not as things are. Hence remember: the more absent love is, the deeper it is. And the more it becomes present, the more petty it becomes. When someone says to someone, "I love you," he reduces love to littleness. For even in saying this much we have brought love within the grasp of the senses—at least the ears have heard it.

Therefore one like Buddha would not even say to anyone, "I love you." To say it is already to murder love. If love is, it need not be made this much present. And if it is, it will be felt. And if it cannot come into experience while remaining unmanifest, then there is no purpose in its coming into experience at all.

But have you ever experienced such love—love that was not said, not spoken; the lover did not touch your hand; the lover did not embrace you; the lover took no measure at all to express love—and suddenly you found that you had bathed in some Ganges! Suddenly you experienced that a shower of flowers had fallen upon you! Suddenly you experienced that some music, from some unknown corner, had begun to play within you! There are no fingers—yet someone has plucked the veena! No one came near—yet someone entered the very innermost! If you have experienced such love even for a single moment, it will become easy to understand what Lao Tzu is saying. For the nature of Paramatman is like love.

But we are unfortunate, because we do not even know love. And the one who does not know love will never come to know Paramatman. Because love is the experience of his faint ray; Paramatman is the vast totality of those rays—the sun.

Lao Tzu’s first sutra is: Tao gives birth to all and nourishes all; it is the begetter of all, yet it makes no claim of ownership. It is no owner.

Human consciousness has, thousands of times, raised its hands to the sky to thank him. Human consciousness has, thousands of times, placed its head at his feet. In human consciousness, thousands of times, a call has arisen, an experience has happened, trust has been born. But from the side of the divine no answer has ever been given. Man says: you are our father. But he has never said: you are my sons. Man says: you created, you made. He has never proclaimed: I am the maker, I am the creator. Unproclaimed, silent—such is his being.

In truth—understand this a little—whoever makes a claim, by making the claim he declares that he is not the one. If a father has to say to his son, "I am your father"; if a lover has to say to his beloved, "I am your lover"; if a guru has to say to his disciple, "Revere me, I am your guru"—then the whole matter becomes futile. For the very day a guru has to say, "I am your guru—revere me, touch my feet," that day the guruness is lost. In truth, only when guruness is lost—or never was—does the claim arise. Hence no true guru has ever said, "Revere me." We call him guru toward whom reverence inevitably happens. The one who has to say, "Revere me," knows well that he is no guru.

I was once at a university. In a meeting of teachers someone asked me: Why do people not respect gurus? Why does today’s student not respect the guru? I said: Where is the guru? For guru means one whom people revere, whom they cannot but revere, one who does not demand it and to whom reverence flows—just as waters flow toward the ocean.

If some day the ocean were to begin saying, "Rivers, why do you no longer flow toward me?"—then we would have to say to the ocean: you are deluded; you must be a pond, not an ocean. For ocean means that toward which rivers flow, toward which rivers must flow, otherwise there is no movement for them. A river’s very being is formed by flowing toward the ocean. She becomes a river precisely because she flows toward the ocean. If she does not flow toward the ocean, she cannot become, cannot be.

So the day the ocean has to say, "O rivers, flow toward me," know then that it is not an ocean. The ocean never needs to say this. Its being is enough. Toward the guru, reverence flows. Toward the lover, love flows. But a claim has to be made—precisely because the claimant is not present. This may seem upside-down, paradoxical—but so it is.

Therefore whenever you make a claim, "I love," then look within. Not even a wisp of the smoke of love will be found inside. For love, in itself, is enough of a claim; its very being is its assertion. Any extra claim only announces impotence—that what we are trying to state within is not there. The divine does not claim, because his very being is the claim.

In the West there was an atheistic thinker, Diderot. One day in an assembly he lifted his watch high and said: If God is anywhere, let him give one small proof, and I will believe. This watch of mine is ticking—let it stop right now. Let God do just this much! For you say he made the world; and you say he is the maker and the destroyer, the one who creates and the one who erases. Let him do this small thing: this watch—made by man—let him stop it at this very moment, and I will fall at his feet forever.

Those who were theists in that assembly looked toward the sky with prayerful eyes: stop it! It is such a small thing—stop this watch! What is not in your hands! If your grace descends, the lame climb mountains, the blind begin to see, the dead arise. What is not in your hands? This small thing—that this tiny watch—just stop it!

But the watch did not stop. And Diderot defeated those theists—not because Diderot’s atheism was right, but because the theism of those theists was not right. They were saying to God: enter into competition with Diderot. They were saying: this is an occasion for a claim—why do you let it go? Become a claimant! Do this little thing—show it!

But had Diderot truly been intelligent, or those theists intelligent, they would have understood. It seems to me that had the divine become excited that day, he would have become forever, forever unproven. If that day he had fallen for Diderot’s words and stopped the watch, the divine would at once have become petty. In truth, claim springs from smallness. If the divine could not even tolerate Diderot, he would become very small. He did not stir; the watch kept ticking; and Diderot won. And all his life Diderot thought: if the divine cannot give even such a small proof, how can he be! Because we believe that proof alone is the evidence of being.

But in fact, that which is never gives proof. We gather proofs precisely because there is doubt! Otherwise we do not gather proofs. Therefore, among those in this world who became supreme theists, none gave proofs for God. And those who did give them—they were not theists. Those who gave proofs and said, "Therefore God is; therefore God is; therefore God is," those who made God’s being the conclusion of an argument, a syllogism, and who said, "As mathematics is proven, so God too is proven"—none of them were theists. They were all atheists, trying somehow to collect proofs to persuade themselves that God is. But if their proofs go wrong, then their God too goes wrong. Wherever God depends on proofs, remember, the proofs become greater than that God.

Tertullian has said: I trust in you because you never gave proofs. This man must have been a theist. Tertullian said: I believe in you because you seem altogether impossible. In every way I think, I find that you cannot be—therefore I trust that you are. Because if you could be by my proofs, I would become greater than you. If God can be established by my proof, then by my proof he can be disestablished as well. If my intellect can decide that God is, then my intellect becomes the judge; it will also be able to decide that God is not. My intellect becomes greater.

Lao Tzu says: he is the maker, the creator, the nourisher—but he is not a claimant. He has never proclaimed, "I am the owner."

In truth, he is so unshakably the owner, so assuredly the master, that no proclamation is needed. You have to proclaim ownership because you are not assured. By announcing day after day, you collect reassurance for yourself. Have you ever noticed—about that with which you are assured, you do not proclaim.

Vivekananda went to Ramakrishna, took his hand and shook it, and said: I want to know—does God exist? Vivekananda had asked this of others too. He had met arguers and thinkers who gave arguments; who said, "He is! I can prove it." He met scholars who opened the scriptures and said to Vivekananda: look, it is written here—he is. But Vivekananda received no assurance. For the one whose God is hidden in the scriptures has no inkling of the real God. And the one whose God is hidden in logic—his God can be demolished at any time. Because logic is a double-edged sword. Whoever leans upon logic—once logic is withdrawn, he falls helpless to the ground.
Vivekananda also asked Ramakrishna: Is there God?
Ramakrishna said, “Don’t ask useless questions; ask whether you want to see, to know, to meet Him.”
It was the first time an utterly assured man stood before him. He did not say, “He exists, I will prove it. I will tell you He exists, I will explain it.” He said, “If you want to meet Him, say so—answer in yes or no.”
Vivekananda later said, “By asking questions I used to put others in embarrassment; Ramakrishna put me in embarrassment. Because I myself had not yet decided whether I was ready to meet Him or not! I had only come out of curiosity.” But Vivekananda said, “One thing became certain: this man does not know through argument, nor through proofs; he simply knows—bare, pure knowing. Not for any reason—he just knows. And he is so assured in his knowing that he tells the other too: if you want to know, say so.” To him it seemed as easy as someone saying, “What are you talking about—does the sun exist or not! Take my hand and come—step outside the house and see the sun. To discuss whether the sun exists is futile; come out and see.” To say it with such simplicity—and yet within that saying is a deep assurance.
Where there is assurance, there is no claim. Where there is no assurance, there is claim. And if even God is not assured, who will be assured? Therefore God has, till now, made no claim.
People say the Bible is God’s book, the Koran is God’s book, and the Vedas are God’s books. But I say to you: God has no book. All books belong to those men who had a glimpse of God. For only if God were to publish a book would He feel very inferior within. And if God were to proclaim, “I am,” then only if he were in doubt about his being.
God has no book because God has no statement. Even if God wanted to explain—then to whom? Even if He wanted to speak, to be the master—of whom? He is the Master. This lordship is so natural, and it has no competitor, no rival, that only a mad God could make the proclamation, “I am the Master.” Remember, even a master needs to proclaim only when there is fear of a competitor.
A husband says to his wife, “I am your master.” A wife says to her husband, “I am your master.” Because competitors are all around and lordship can be snatched away. Someone else can be the owner. You put a plaque on the door and claim a house as yours, because if you miss making the claim in time, someone else might. But before whom would God make a claim?
Therefore Lao Tzu says: He does not claim to be the master. Tao, or God, or Dharma is not a claimant, because its claim is assured, natural. It simply is.
“He does everything, yet has no ego in doing it.”
Whenever we do something out of compulsion, through force, with striving—only then is the ego created. When we do something effortlessly, by nature, the ego is not created. There are many acts we too do that do not create ego. At night you sleep; all day you breathe—yet no ego arises from this. You do not announce it, beating your chest, standing in the marketplace: “Today I took so many thousand breaths.” Not a little—you take many thousands of breaths. In a lifetime you take billions of breaths. If you were to calculate, you could claim, “In my life I took so many breaths! Of sixty years I slept twenty!” So many mornings I rose; so many evenings I slept!
No, we make no claim for these, because they are natural functions. Yet man does make claims. If there is even a rupee in his pocket, he claims. If there are millions, he claims—and even for a penny he claims. Though for a single breath he would be ready to give millions, he never claims his breath. If, to a dying man, one were to say, “You can have one more breath—give all your wealth,” he would give all his wealth and take that one breath. But what a strange thing: all his life he claimed that paltry wealth, and never claimed this breath—though he took millions of breaths.
Breath was nature—therefore he did not claim it. Wealth was not nature; it was acquired by effort—therefore he claimed it. Where there is effort, ego is created. Where there is no effort, ego is not created. If God is making the world with effort, the way we make wealth, then ego will be created. But if it is an effortless process, the way we breathe, then there is no question of claim, no question of ego. Therefore those who know prefer not to say, “God created the world.” They prefer to say, “God became the world.” Not even that much distance. When trees grow, it is not that God makes them; God manifests and becomes as trees. When clouds move in the sky, it is not that God drives them; God Himself glides and moves as those clouds. It is not that God makes man; God Himself becomes man.
Understand it this way: a painter paints a painting—having painted, the painting is separate and the painter is separate. God is not such that He makes existence and then stands apart. For there is no way for Him to be separate; there is no place apart from Him. God is joined to the world as a dancer is joined to his dance. A dancer is dancing. The dance and the dancer are not two—they are one. If the dancer stops, the dance stops. You cannot tell the dancer, “Go away and leave your dance behind.”
Therefore the image of God we have made is as a dancer—Nataraj. There is a reason. Because dance and dancer are one. Thus, in the form of a dancer, God can be understood most correctly. The world and God are one. And whatever is happening in the world is the spontaneous nature of God.
Therefore Lao Tzu says: Tao does everything, yet He has no pretension in doing it.
Pretension arises only in those who do something by force. Do we know of any act in life that we have done without pretension? If we do, the very name of such an act is virtue (punya). This may seem a little difficult. Because even when we do virtue, pretension arises. In truth, if pretension cannot be produced, no one is ready to do virtue at all.
If I say to you, “A temple has to be built; please give money for it,” you ask, “Where will my plaque be?” And if I say, “There will be no plaque in this temple,” then you may be sure this temple will not be built. Because people do not build temples; they build plaques. And it is not that plaques are put on temples; rather, temples are hung on plaques. Plaques are primary; temples are secondary—because without a temple the plaque won’t look good, so a temple is affixed along with it. But the plaque is the basis. If you are told that for the donation you give there will be no praise for you, then donation becomes impossible. Therefore the scriptures explain how much praise the donor will receive in this world and the next; how much merit, how much fruit, how much happiness, how much bliss. “Give one penny here,” the scriptures say, “and there in the other world it will be returned a millionfold.” To get one penny of donation, they must assure a millionfold of pretension.
But the meaning of virtue is something else. Virtue means an act from which no pretension is produced. The act from which pretension is produced—that alone is sin. Therefore we can say God has not committed a single sin to this day, because we have heard no news of any pretension in Him. He has not even said, “I am,” till now. Therefore whatever He has done is virtue. What you do can also become virtue—if no ego is produced by it, if the ego, the I, does not become dense. If the act happens and nothing is added to my “I,” then the act becomes virtue. And if something is added to my “I,” the act becomes sin.
Therefore the question is not which act is virtue and which act is sin. People ask, “Which work is virtue and which work is sin?” They are asking the wrong question. It is not a question of the act; it is a question of the doer. One should ask: In what manner can the act happen and the doer not be strengthened? Then it becomes virtue. And even if the act is not done, and the doer is strengthened, it becomes sin. Doing is not necessary.
A man is not stealing, but only thinking. A man is not murdering, only thinking. A man is not fighting an election, only thinking—and in thinking alone he climbs the steps of ego. There are substitutes. Not all can climb the real steps. The real steps have their own labor, their own pain, their own trouble. But everyone can at least dream. Not all can become emperors, but in dreams everyone can become an emperor. So by dreaming we placate and persuade the mind.
But even in dreams—have you ever noticed? Sitting in an easy chair, if you are thinking that you have won the election—not fought, not won, only thinking you have won—have you noticed that within, the ego climbs four steps? It does not take long. It keeps a perfect register of you, like the mercury in a thermometer: wherever you have taken enjoyment in an act, immediately the mercury rises—even if you have not done the act. Conversely, the opposite also happens. Even if the act has been done, if I-ness is not produced, if ego is not produced, the mercury keeps falling.
“Tao does everything, yet has no pretension; He is the sovereign of all things, yet He does not control them.”
This sutra is very subtle.
“He is the sovereign of all things, yet He does not control them.”
For centuries people have been asking: If God is, and if everything happens by His doing, then why does He let a thief steal? And why does He let a murderer murder? And why does He let a cheat cheat? And when a weak person is oppressed, why does He stand by and watch?
This question is pertinent and worth asking. Thoughtful people have asked it again and again. In truth, the greatest doubt thoughtful minds have about the existence of God is precisely this question.
Bertrand Russell asks: a child is born blind, crippled, deformed, born already with cancer—if your God exists, how is this happening? And you say he does everything, he is the sovereign. Russell says, seeing all this, one suspects there is no God. Seeing what is happening, one suspects there is no God. Seeing that life is like a hell, one suspects there can be no God here. And if there is a God, it is pointless to call him God; better to call him the Devil—looking at what is happening.

It is a valid question: if God is doing everything, why is there evil in the world?

A Muslim friend once came to see me. He said, my biggest question is: why is there evil in the world? Evil should not exist at all, if God is.

He is right—because on the face of it the two don’t seem to fit. How to relate so much evil to God? I said to him, for a moment, imagine the other picture. When would you accept that God is? He said, when there is no evil in the world. I said, suppose all evil is removed from the world—what kind of world would that be? Think it over and tell me. Because the moment evil is removed, goodness will also disappear. Good cannot live alone; it lives only because evil exists. The day darkness is completely removed, light cannot survive—light exists because darkness is.

Understand it this way: if we remove all cold from existence, can heat survive? Heat and cold are degrees of the same thing. Imagine we remove life from the world, or remove death—could the other remain? If there were no life in the world, how could there be death? And if there were no death, how could life be?

Existence lives through opposites—the polar opposites. The way of being of the world is the music between contraries. Remove the opposite and both vanish. Remove men from the world and women will be lost; remove women and men will be lost. Remove old age and youth will disappear—though the young always wish for a youth without old age. They do not know youth and old age are so intertwined that remove one, and the other is lost. Our mind longs that nothing ugly remain—but we don’t see that if the ugly goes, the beautiful goes with it. Imagine a world where there is absolutely nothing ugly—remember, no world could be uglier, because there would be nothing beautiful either. Both would be gone.

So I asked that friend: suppose evil is strictly prohibited—no one can do evil. Then goodness would evaporate from that world. And the shape of that world would be like a great prison. Because where there is no freedom to do evil, there can be no freedom at all.

In truth, the freedom to do evil is hidden within freedom. If I say to someone, “You have the freedom only to be good,” does that freedom have any meaning? To tell someone, “You have the freedom only to be good,” is absurd; it should be said, “You have the bondage to be good.” Then it should be said, “You are condemned to be good; not to be free to be good.” Because when we say you are free to do good, another freedom enters along with it—the freedom to do evil.

God is sovereign, yet he does not control. This means God creates, but he creates freedom. He makes, but he makes freedom, not bondage. Therefore man is free to become the worst—even though God is. Because hidden within this freedom to be bad is freedom itself. And if there is no freedom, man won’t be man—he will be a machine. A machine is not free to do evil; we can make it do whatever we want—that is why it is a machine. Man—consciousness, awareness—is impossible without freedom.

Lao Tzu says: the Maker is he, but he does not control. He is the creator, but not the controller. He is a creator, not a jailer. He has not built our prison and stands at the gate like a guard.

People like Bertrand Russell say that this is why they suspect there is no God; and I say to you this is precisely what proves there is God. Because in a world without freedom, there cannot be God. Freedom itself is the fundamental evidence of God’s being. He is—because we are so free. He is...

Understand it this way: there is an ocean and fish swim in it. They don’t even notice the ocean. But only because there is an ocean do they exist. And whatever movement there is in that ocean, whatever freedom they have to swim, is also because of the ocean. If the ocean dries up, the fish will be nothing—dead. All their freedom will be lost. The ocean is their space for freedom.

God is freedom. That is why those who searched the deepest—Mahavira or Buddha—named God as moksha, liberation. Mahavira did not even use the word God; he said moksha is sufficient. Moksha means freedom. The world lives in perfect freedom. If we are doing wrong, it is a wrong use of freedom. If we choose, we can do right. But freedom is our destiny. Therefore we can descend to the lowest rung of sin and we can climb to the highest peak of virtue. We can go to hell; we can go to heaven. We can fall into the last abyss of darkness and enter the utterly luminous realm of light. Both are possible, because the intrinsic nature of our soul is freedom.

Sartre has said it rightly: You cannot choose to be free; you are freedom!

But freedom also means this: that if I prefer a prison, I must be able to choose it. If even this much is predetermined—that someone declares, “You can do anything, only you cannot enter the jail”—then I am already unfree. Then this vast world becomes bondage for me. Freedom means total freedom, the full possibility to go either way.

So God is not a controller; he is a creator. This gives us a little difficulty, because the mind wants him to be a controller too. Then the responsibility on us would also go—we wouldn’t have to be responsible. We all want to be machines. We seek slavery, because we don’t know how to use freedom. Whenever we get freedom, we commit suicide. Whenever freedom comes to us, we make a journey to hell. Then we say, better that chains be on our hands if at least we reach heaven; better that there be prisons all around if only we arrive in heaven. Because in freedom we always go downward. So we are forever searching for slavery—by ever-new methods. Our ways of seeking slavery are very strange.

Erich Fromm has written a remarkable book: Escape from Freedom. Fromm says, every person is escaping from freedom. Wherever freedom appears, he runs and quickly hides himself in some slavery.

We don’t even notice it. Our habits of slavery are so old that we don’t even realize this is slavery. If someone wants to seek truth, he doesn’t go to seek truth—he immediately opens the scripture. He doesn’t know this is slavery. He wants even truth on loan—that someone give it to him. If someone wants to seek truth, he won’t walk two steps on his own feet; he quickly clutches at some guru’s feet and says, “Enough. You are everything. You give it to me. What can a sinner like me do?” Though all sin is being done by him—because to be a sinner also requires doing. He says, “What can a sinner like me do?” He is really saying, “Somehow save me from my freedom—save me from my freedom. You become my jailer. Then tomorrow, even if I fall into hell, I can say you were my guru. And if I attain heaven, I can say, after all, I myself chose you as my guru; I myself surrendered at your feet, renounced everything.” So he grabs a guru, grabs a scripture, grabs a leader.

Hitler, Stalin, Mussolini, Mao do not arise out of nowhere—the whole nation wants to be a slave. The whole nation wants someone to declare loudly, “I know what is right,” and for us to fall at his feet. “Don’t burden us with the trouble of finding out what is right. Tell us plainly—do this, don’t do that.”

That is why we chase after moralists and pester saints: “Tell us what is right and what is wrong.” Those we are asking have asked someone else; they too don’t know what is right and wrong. But when they see people asking, then tellers also appear. They will tell us, “This is right and this is wrong.” Let someone take our burden; freedom feels heavier than chains. It should be the opposite—that freedom becomes wings to fly into the sky—but freedom feels heavier than fetters, because nothing is clear—what to do?

There was a Zen monk, Nan-in. He was with his master. One night it got very late. It was a dark night; he was about to leave for home. He said to the master, “The path is very dark.” The master said, “I’ll give you a lamp.” He lit a lamp and placed it in Nan-in’s hand. And as Nan-in put his foot on the first step to go down, the master blew out the lamp. Nan-in said, “What kind of joke is this? The path is very dark.” The master said, “But the light that comes by another’s lamp—better than that is your own darkness. Find your way in the dark. By searching in the darkness, your inner lamp will be lit. When you search, clarity grows. You will bump, fall, break arms and legs—no matter; but the soul will be forged. By my lamp your limbs may be saved, but your soul will be lost. Therefore I blow it out.”

Nan-in has written in his memoirs: I have never been able to forget that man. Though he snatched the lamp from my hand and blew out the flame, he was the very one who pushed me into the dark and made it possible for my inner lamp to be lit. So today, as my inner lamp burns, I thank him.

Freedom! God too can put a lamp in your hand. Then you can live, like insects around a lamp, by its support. You will never fall, never wander astray; hell will never come—you will reach heaven directly. But the heaven attained by someone else’s support is worse than hell—because that heaven too will be bondage. Goodness that is not one’s own, not sought and lived by oneself, that goodness is worse than evil.

Therefore Lao Tzu says: the Tao creates all, but does not control. He does not point, “Walk like this.” He gives the power to walk, he gives the dimensions of walking—but he does not say, “Walk this way.” The power to move is his, the sky to move in is his, the paths are his, the darkness is his, the light is his, the mover is his, and yet he does not signal, “Go left or go right.” He gives life, and makes freedom the very basis of life. If we choose, this will become the source of our suffering; if we choose, this will be our blessing. With this freedom we can create greatly—and the supreme hidden within us can be revealed. Or we can make this very freedom our darkness, our hell—lose ourselves and be destroyed in it.

But one thing is certain: there is absolute freedom in the world. And this absolute freedom is the unannounced declaration of God’s existence. It is his silent statement: “I am.” But we have no sense of this freedom. We are afraid—because freedom means responsibility. Freedom means I am ultimately responsible for all deeds. If I go to hell, I can blame no one. I alone am responsible. This responsibility terrifies us. We all pass responsibility to one another. Sometimes husband and wife put it on each other; both become carefree that the other is responsible—unaware of the game they play.

Eric Berne has written a book: Games People Play. He discusses all the games man plays. This too is a game—that we dump our responsibility onto each other. And the one we burden with our responsibility also puts his on us.

The amusing thing is: he who could not carry his own responsibility, how will he carry another’s? But he doesn’t even know you have placed it on him; you don’t know he has placed his on you. So both spend life blaming each other—without knowing that both are beggars alike, bowls extended toward each other—both asking, none giving.

We fear freedom; that’s why we want some kind of slavery. Our so‑called God—not Lao Tzu’s—is also a form of slavery. We want to leave it all to him at night: “Now you handle it.” We want to dump it on him: “You take care.”

Hence the strange fact: when a man is happy, he does not remember God; only in sorrow does he remember. Because only in sorrow does the question of shifting responsibility to another arise; in happiness we can carry it ourselves. When happiness comes, we are the cause; and when sorrow comes, then it is due to someone else. Then we want to point a finger at God: “With you around, and we suffer like this! Your very being is useless! If you are, prove it—remove our suffering.”

A man once told me he had firm faith in God now; because he had said, “If my son doesn’t get a job within fifteen days, I will never be able to trust you again”—and the job came. I said, “God has made a poor bargain with you; it will break any day. Never place such a condition again, or you’ll be in trouble.” He said, “What are you saying! Now I have firm faith that God is.” I said, “This very ‘faith’ will trouble you—and your God too. It was mere coincidence that your son got the job. Don’t fall into the ego that God needs to take a personal interest in getting your son employed. Don’t fall into that. Or you become too important, your son too important, your son’s job too important. God becomes like a servant. And don’t demand such service again, because coincidence won’t always oblige.”

Two months later he returned: “Your words jinxed it—everything’s gone wrong.” I said, “I didn’t jinx anything.” He said, “What! Since that day, I’ve tried three or four times; every time I met with failure. God has turned his back on me.”

God neither turns his back, nor faces you. He has neither back nor face. Neither your cries, nor your petitions, nor your prayers, nor your insistences have any meaning. You have value—but only in the sense that you can use your freedom creatively. How to use the freedom creatively—that alone is your value.

That is what sadhana means: the creative use of freedom. The worldly man uses freedom destructively—goes on killing himself, turning his own freedom into a barrier to his own life. In the end, his freedom becomes his own cross.

So in suffering we remember God because we want to offload responsibility. In happiness we don’t remember at all. Hence Russell writes: I will wait for the day to know whether God truly is and whether there is any theist in the world—the day there is no suffering in the world. Russell is right. So far as our theism goes, our faith will wash away like cheap colors in the rain. If there were no suffering—think for a moment—if there were no suffering, would any man remember God? Would temple bells ring and church candles be lit? Would the azan arise at dawn from the mosque?

Suffering! All these temples and mosques, azans and prayers and worship, these sacrifices and rituals—this is our suffering speaking. And the irony is: neither mosque nor temple nor worship nor recitation can remove suffering. We create suffering; we can remove it. Suffering is the misuse of our freedom.

But we want to escape freedom. Think honestly for a moment: if there were no suffering, where would the thought of God arise? Why would it? God is exactly like medicine when you’re ill. When there is no illness, who but a madman thinks of medicine? God becomes a medicine—of medicinal use, like a drug. When there is sorrow, we take the dose of God. When there is no sorrow, we toss the bottle into the trash. We remember in sorrow only to place our burden on someone else’s shoulders.

But no burden can be placed on God’s shoulders, because God does not make you dependent. You are free. And no one loves freedom more than God. Freedom is so deep; therefore there is so much inequality.

Socialists and communists criticize God in exactly this way: if God is, why so much inequality? Why this inequity? To ears that have never labored to think deeply, their argument sounds fine: if God is, why such disparity? People should be equal!

But remember: freedom and equality are opposite conditions. If you want equality, freedom cannot remain; if you want freedom, equality cannot remain. Everyone can be made equal, but then all must be made dependent. Equality can exist nowhere except in a prison. And even in a prison, if there is the least convenience, inequality will arise. There must be severity—so severe that no one has even a slight chance to become unequal; only then can equality exist. Perfect equality is possible only in perfect bondage. Therefore, if communism ever fully succeeds, the entire world will become a big prison. And if it does not fully succeed, communism can never be—without the prison, communism is impossible.

Freedom means this: whoever wants to be as he is, is free to be so. Then inequality is inevitable. And if equality is to be preserved, you must hammer and clamp each person into just that position where he remains equal.

Another curious thing: the more equality there is, the lower the level of consciousness will become. The more equality, the lower the consciousness.

There are advantages to this for understanding. Imagine a class of thirty children. You cannot forcibly make the thirtieth into the first—but you can forcibly make the first stand in the thirtieth place. You cannot force the last to become the top, but you can prevent the top student from reaching the top and keep him in the last row.

If you truly want equality, it will be at the lowest level. Because you cannot pull the low up to the superior, but you can hold the superior down to the low. It isn’t easy to bring all the hospital’s sick into the line of the supremely healthy. But it is very easy to lay the healthy on hospital beds. There’s no difficulty in pulling back; pushing forward is always hard. Therefore the greater the equality, the lower the level; the greater the freedom, the more consciousnesses can touch the sky. But freedom means: the one who wants to touch will touch; the one who does not want will not. The one who does not want to rise will sit where he is; the one who wants to walk can reach distant journeys.

So those who say, “If God is, why is there no equality?”—remember, Marx denied God precisely because if God is, freedom cannot be destroyed; then inequality will continue. If we want to annihilate inequality and destroy freedom, then the central principle of freedom—God—we must bid farewell to him.

Therefore communism is not atheistic without reason; it has a reason, a deep reason. One cannot be communist and theist together—it is impossible. Atheism is essential. Because God means: no control. This that Lao Tzu says, he said it twenty-five centuries before Marx. Without control there can be freedom; and with freedom, growth becomes possible.

But then responsibility is on us. And if we wish to avoid responsibility, we will immediately choose some slavery. If God and gurus are not found to enslave us, we will make the State our master. It makes no difference—someone must put a bridle around our neck and drive us like cattle. We cannot walk ourselves; let someone drag us, push us. Then we feel more assured. We feel now we are going right; there is no chance of mistake.

But remember: this is the greatest mistake. There is no other mistake greater than this. The greatest mistake is one: once we lose our freedom, whatever we do becomes a mistake, a sin, a crime.

Lao Tzu says, “This is the most mysterious quality of the Tao.”

This is its most mysterious feature: he is, it is his nature to be, and yet he is not anyone’s bondage. Think a little: if God were to appear here right now—just present—then you would no longer remain free. He need do nothing; just stand here, simply be present, and you would instantly become unfree. Why? Because his presence would become self-condemnation for you; in his presence you would be frightened; all your sins would appear before you.

Therefore religious teachers have always told people: he is watching from everywhere—he has a thousand eyes. It’s a device. He has no eyes at all. That doesn’t mean he is blind—he can see without eyes. But priests have insisted, “He sees from all sides.” If you are stealing, remember: perhaps no policeman is there, no magistrate is there, no landlord is there—but God is there. This is taught to produce fear in you. So wherever you go, whatever you do—there is One who sees. A thousand eyes are fixed on you.

If someone truly comes to believe this, sin will become difficult—because if a thousand eyes, searchlight eyes, God’s X-ray eyes pierce from all sides, right through to the bones, how will you steal? You pick up a coin, and a thousand eyes are watching—your soul will break into a sweat, not your body. The coin will drop from your hand; you will run.

But the one who thus “avoids” sin has not avoided sin; he has only fallen into fear. Sin has happened—double sin: theft and fear.

I have heard of a Catholic nun who bathed wearing clothes. Other nuns asked, “Have you gone mad? What need is there to wear clothes in the bathroom?” She said, “Have you not read—God is present everywhere? He is present in the bathroom too.”

No one told that poor woman: if he can see in the bathroom, he can also see beneath the clothes. If he is everywhere, then it’s equally possible to be naked anywhere—because he is seeing anyway. There’s no remedy now!

But this attempt to create a fear complex had bad results. Man did not become good—he became frightened. And a frightened man can never be good. Only a fearless man can be good. Yet the religious leaders tried to make God “present,” present at every point. Whereas God himself is totally absent—absent totally. That too is part of freedom. If he were present, we could not be free; we could not even be. The moment he stands before us, we become unfree—because his very presence becomes agony for the conscience. How will theft be before him? How will sin be before him? How will violence be before him? It will become impossible.

Therefore part of God’s essential freedom is his non-presence—his absence. He is as if he is not. Class is in session and the teacher is absent. Then whoever feels like what, does it. Each is free to do whatever. This is his deepest mysterious quality—that he is, and he is not present. He is everywhere—there isn’t a hair’s breadth empty of him; in every pore, every heartbeat, every particle—only he is; and yet he is absent—and we do not notice he is. And people ask, “Is there a God? Where?”

This is his mystery: he is—and we can still ask, “Where?” He is everywhere—and we can still ask, “Where is he?” He alone is—and we can still say, “We don’t see; we cannot accept.” Because if he were somewhere, he would be seen. Who has ever seen? And even the one who says, “I know,” how can he make others see? We can say, he is mad, dreaming; his brain is damaged; he is lost in fantasy, in projection. Because thousands are there to say, “We don’t see,” and occasionally one says, “He is.” That one becomes utterly alone. Very alone.

Buddha, Mahavira, Christ, Muhammad are very alone. In truth, no men have been more solitary upon the earth. Amid huge crowds they live—Mahavira surrounded by thousands—and yet utterly alone, because what Mahavira is saying, none of them knows; none of them believes. This that Lao Tzu is saying—thousands gather around him, yet the man is alone.

It is surprising: surrounded by multitudes, these people are utterly solitary. Because what they say, we all suspect cannot be. “It doesn’t appear anywhere.” And yet these men are endearing, magnetic—there is some magnet in their being; though we cannot believe their words, we still find ourselves walking behind them. There is some magic—hypnotic; they grip and won’t let go. We don’t want to believe; we want to deny; a thousand times we run away, think against them, try to escape—and yet something draws us back. But they are alone—because they speak of that which is present to them and completely absent to us.

Ramakrishna says to Vivekananda: “I have heard you have been hungry for days. Madman, why don’t you go inside and ask the Mother for what you need?” Vivekananda—a bright, intelligent youth—thinks: what kind of talk is this? “Go inside and ask the Mother.” Where is the Mother? Who is the Mother? But Ramakrishna speaks with such certainty that one doesn’t even dare say to his face, “Where? Who?”

There is debt; his father is dead; the debt remains unpaid; his mother goes hungry. Some days there is enough food for only one—either the mother eats or Vivekananda. So he says, “I have an invitation at a friend’s house today; I’ll go there,” so that the mother can eat. He roams the streets hungry, returns home smiling, rubs his stomach, burps, “Such a fine meal at my friend’s,” so the mother feels at ease. Ramakrishna hears and says, “Madman! How much is your debt? Why don’t you go to the Mother and ask?”

Ramakrishna is “mad.” What Mother? Who will give? One cannot trust; one cannot believe.

Ramakrishna served as a priest. But within eight days, the very trustees who had appointed him brought a case against him. They summoned him: “What kind of man are you? We’ve heard that before you offer food to the deity, you taste it yourself! Should the offering be made first, or should you taste first? Is a defiled offering to be placed?”

Ramakrishna said, “When my mother fed me, she always tasted before giving me food. I cannot offer to the Mother without tasting—who knows whether it is fit to eat or not.”

The trustees bang their heads: “What Mother? The temple is ours; the idol is installed by us. We’ve hired this priest—some madman—for eighteen rupees a month. The temple is worth lakhs, built by us. And this priest tells us he won’t offer without tasting first, to see if the food is edible! He says he will leave the job, but he will taste first and only then offer. He will smell the flowers before offering; if there is no fragrance, what is the point of offering?” The trustees look at one another: what is this man saying? Is he mad? The temple we built, the idol we installed—what Mother! What nonsense! It is all our play, a drama. The priest is mad. We never quite trust such people. But looking into Ramakrishna’s eyes, one must believe perhaps he is right—perhaps he does see. The doubt remains full.

These persons are alone. And the greatest reason for their loneliness is God’s mysterious quality: he is, and he is absent—as if he is not. He is, as if he is not. Fully is, but this “as if”—this is the mystery—that he is completely non-present. Therefore only those who find the art of seeing in his absence can see him. Those who discover the art of seeing without eyes—only they can see him. Those who enter his embrace without hands—only they can enter. Neither the atheist accepts this mysterious quality, nor the theist. Understand it.

The atheist says: forget it, nonsense. What is not, is not. Why twist the ear so roundabout? Hold it straight: “He is not.” The atheist’s logic is straight, mathematical, tidy. He says, “We’ll hold the ear straight; why go the long way around with ‘as if he is not’? Say it straight: he is not. End of story.” Why add this long detour of “as if”? If he is not, he is not. If he is, he is. The atheist also says: if he is, he must appear as is—then we will accept.

The theist too has difficulty; he also cannot grasp this “as if he is not.” So he devises techniques. His device is to make symbols—to end this mysterious quality and make logic straight, he makes symbols. He erects an image. He leaves talk of God and clutches the feet of the idol. At least the idol is. Then he says, “Now there is something I can hold.” Then he clings to some Rama, some Buddha, some Krishna. “Leave that mysterious Absolute Brahman—whoever he is—you are here, and you are enough.” But this too is the atheist’s logic. He cannot defeat the atheist; so he says, “Perhaps there is no God; but Rama is! Rama is God. Krishna is—Krishna is God.”

Then he gathers miracle-tales around Rama and Krishna. Because the atheist will say: if a thorn pricks Rama’s foot and blood flows, what difference is there between us and Rama? If a thorn pricks Mahavira’s foot and blood flows, what difference? If you cut the neck and Mahavira dies and we die, how is he God?

So then the theist must add miracles: “No—cut Mahavira and the sword will be cut; Mahavira won’t.” “You thought you killed Jesus, and the next day he resurrected; he appears again—you cannot kill him.” Then stories accumulate. This all comes from our lack of understanding. Not grasping this mysterious quality, we are forced into such mischief.

A friend came to me yesterday—intelligent, thoughtful, loving me for years. He said, “Why don’t you also do something like Sai Baba—some miracle? Then millions will come.”

But what would I do with those millions? Even if they come, what then? Certainly, miracles will bring crowds—but they come because of the miracle, not because of Sai Baba. If even one comes because of Sai Baba himself, there is some fruit. If they come for miracles, there is no fruit—because the one who comes for miracles is not a theist. A theist is one who says: everything in this world is a miracle. There is nothing here that is not a miracle. A seed becomes a tree, clouds move across the sky, the sun rises daily, stars shine—everything is a miracle. He to whom this universe offers no miracle says, “Ash falls from a hand—what a great miracle!” The sun rises and this blind man sees no miracle. A pinch of ash falls from a palm, and he says, “A miracle!”

The mind that believes in ash is a mind that cannot move toward God. A lakh-strong crowd can gather—but it is the crowd that gathers around a juggler’s drum. It has nothing to do with religion. The trouble is: therefore, around Mahavira, Buddha, Krishna, Rama, Christ, Muhammad—stories are fabricated. They are sheer falsehoods. False—because...

But the devotee is compelled; unless he adds, they do not seem divine. If he doesn’t add, they remain ordinary men. So he must say: whenever Muhammad walks, whatever fierce the sun, a cloud moves above him. He must say it—he is compelled. The compulsion is the same: his reasoning is also the atheist’s; his intellect is also the atheist’s. He has no heart of a theist to say: why hunt for miracles—there is nothing in this world that is not a miracle. Bring me one thing that is not miraculous—then I will understand. Everything here is miraculous.

That you are—this is no small miracle! There is no reason for your being. You might not be—could you complain? But you are—whole. And have you ever thought what a great miracle it is that “I am”? There is no necessity for my being. If I were not, nothing would be amiss. I was not, and the world went on. There is no need for me—yet I am. And this being of mine can break in a moment—could I complain to anyone for making me “not”? When I am, who knows who makes me be! When I am not, who knows who makes me not! Such a great miracle is happening each moment in your very being—and you run after a little ash falling from a hand and call it a great miracle!

It is lack of intelligence that makes such petty things seem miraculous. With intelligence, the whole world becomes a miracle.

Then the theist must seek devices to prove that Rama is God, that Krishna is God.

I am not saying they are not God. I am saying everything is God here. Everything is divinity. There is nothing here that is not God. Therefore there is no need to prove that Rama is God—this is idle chatter. There is nothing here that is not God—of course Rama is God. Here, to be at all is to be God. But then we keep contriving. An ordinary simple man won’t do as God; we must devise reasons: “These and these reasons make him God.” Then we set him before us; then we feel secure. Then we have bypassed God’s mysterious quality; we have evaded it. We make idols, avatars, tirthankaras, and circle around them—because our logic can grasp these; this mysterious quality of the Tao eludes us.

But until this is understood, know that you have not entered the doorway of religion. The day you gather the capacity to bring this mysterious quality into understanding, that very day you will have the first glimpse of the Lord’s temple. Before that, no glimpse is possible. The “gods” you make before that are home‑made; the avatars and tirthankaras you craft beforehand are proofs only of your skill and art.

If you want to enter into God, keep this mysterious quality in remembrance: he is present, as if he is not; he is absent, yet he is present. He is absent—and present; present everywhere, and as if not. If you can remember this continually and let it enter your every breath, the unveiling of religion in your life can begin.

That’s all for today. We’ll pause for five minutes. And don’t just sit—when the kirtan begins here, join with clapping. Friends who wish to dance may also come down.